Dog days are over


As my internal bodyclock ticks over to 22 years, I sit back and evaluate my life. The depressing fact is that If I were a dog, I would be 154 years old….and most definitely a pile of bones by now. As for me in human form, I sit here In penguin pyjama bottoms at 9.30 am on a friday morning; awake early to brush the remnants of  birthday cocktails from my pearly whites. The age of 22 is an odd one, the big congrats of 21 are but a distant memory, and the milestone of 30 is a dot on the horizon; all ages in between just seem to blur into one collage of expanding waistlines and receding hairlines. Every year I have the same conversation of “What would you like for your birthday?”, followed immediately by “I don’t want to just give you money.” Sad fact is, for someone my age, all you need is money. Birthday money gives you the illusions of granure, and blinkers the fact that you are still up to your eyeballs in student debt. So with it burning a hole in my pocket, I set out buying frivolous jumpers and fancy cocktails….it is nice to feel wealthy, just for the day.

I continued my life of luxury with a meal of my choice. Where did I pick? None other than my place of work. Don’t worry, I don’t work in McDonald’s. So instead of lingering on the ground floor, I ditched memories of my work cupboard and ascended in the lift to ‘THE 5TH FLOOR.’ A magical place where the people are pretty, the bread is warm, and the butter comes in unusual shapes. Dressed in my refinery we sat down for some nouvelle cuisine. Three courses for £9.95 you can’t argue really, even if the portions are miniscule. Microscope in hand, and tweezers at the ready, we tucked in to some 5 * food. I resisted the urge to kick my mother under the table as she stifled her laugh at the size of meals. However, I was slightly worried that if I sneezed it might fly off the plate and hit the businessman behind.  Disguised as the upper class, the two of us sat there, listetning away, and people watching. A woman next to us very loudly proclaimed that she had botox last week; probably not the best conversation when the tables are shoehorned together. Not only did I feel like I was sat on her knee, but that she was shouting it in my ear. After a surprisingly filling meal, (I stocked up on free bread)  it was time to hit the cocktails for my 10 hour drinking binge. We followed the businessmen, rich kids, and botox pumped women out, and left this world behind. My fleeting glimpse of the high life was gone.

My 22 years have taught me a lot, and I appear to be going through one of my ‘itchy feet’ phases. About once a year I get the incredible urge to completely re-invent myself. Right now I have gone through a slight quarter life crisis (assuming I live until 88.) For those of you who haven’t seen me I have embraced OAP status 40 years early. Forget dark hair, this season white is the new black! So as I write, I have a tuft of platinum blonde hair crowning my head. Cue comments from family about Rhydian from X-Factor, believe me that was not the intention. In fact I think I resemble an albino Yeti, leaving a breadcrumb trail of white hairs everywhere. My mother questions why I had not also dyed my eyebrows, as if to finish off my albino outfit. Whilst I do love my new hair, I am suffering somewhat. My poor sensitive skin seems not to live having corrosive bleach poured on it, and my scalp is now subject to some quite bad chemical burns. I know there is pain involved in beauty, but this is a bit much. Someone suggested I bath my hair in milk; I would, except I can’t bring myself to waste that much milk.

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